Dawn cracked over the Nevada horizon, the light slow and reluctant, like someone prying open a tired eye after a sleepless night. In the middle of a vast and empty stretch of desert, Adam Brashear reappeared in a burst of soft blue light. He dropped to one knee, boots digging into the sand. The containment suit flickered across his body, sparking and groaning before fading entirely, its emergency reserves depleted.
His breath came in shallow bursts. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He stayed there for a long moment, listening. Nothing but wind and emptiness. No approaching footsteps. No engines. No pursuers. Just the raw stillness of the American desert stretching endlessly around him.
"Still here," he whispered to himself, almost in disbelief. As if his survival broke some unspoken rule.
Adam peeled off what remained of his damaged tech — the last traces of Project Blue Marvel clinging to his skin like the remnants of a dream. Each piece, even singed and broken, held memories: the weight of responsibility, failed missions, and victories that cost too much. He lingered on one cracked gauntlet, running a thumb over its scorched surface, before digging a shallow hole beneath a rock formation and burying it with the rest. He covered the makeshift grave with sand and small stones. If anyone came looking, they wouldn't find much — just dust, scorched earth, and secrets best left forgotten.
The desert offered no judgment. Only silence.
He walked for miles under the growing heat. The soles of his boots wore thinner with every step. Blisters formed and burst across his heels. The air shimmered with heat distortion, turning distant rocks into phantom cities that vanished upon approach. By midday, the sky was an oppressive sheet of blue and white, and Adam's shirt clung to his back with sweat. Every breath felt like pulling air through an oven.
He found brief shade under a lone mesquite bush and rested. His thoughts wandered to the lab, the explosion, the betrayal — images flashing across his mind like scenes from a film reel. But this wasn't fiction. He was still here, and the consequences were real. He stood again, steps slower but still determined.
Eventually, a dusty two-lane highway cut through the sands like a faded scar. It shimmered with heatwaves, empty in both directions. No road signs. No sound. Just a ribbon of asphalt stretching into nothing.
A pickup truck rumbled in the distance — old, rattling, and driven by a man who looked like life had worn him down but never broken him. Gray beard. Weathered skin. Baseball cap pulled low. Radio playing soft blues through crackling speakers.
Adam stuck out his thumb, arm unsteady from fatigue.
The truck slowed. The driver leaned out, squinting through the dusty windshield.
"You alright out here?" he asked, voice gravelly but kind.
Adam nodded faintly. "Got a little lost. I'd appreciate a ride."
The man looked him over. Dirt. Sweat. That haunted look people carried after running too long.
"Climb in," he said.
The truck smelled like sun-baked leather and engine oil. Adam eased into the passenger seat, grateful for the chance to sit. The air wasn't cool, but it beat the sun.
The old man handed him a bottle of lukewarm water. Adam drank gratefully, nearly draining it.
"James Monroe," Adam offered, not missing a beat.
The man raised an eyebrow, then nodded. "Well, James, you look like someone who's walked too far and thought too much."
Adam chuckled, rubbing his temple. "Is it that obvious?"
The man shrugged. "People out here got tells. You can learn a lot just by how someone holds their silence."
They drove on in easy quiet. The blues hummed through the speakers like a familiar ache. Adam closed his eyes, just for a moment, letting the road hum beneath them.
They stopped outside a worn roadside diner on the edge of a ghost town. Gravel crunched beneath the tires. The sign creaked in the wind: SALLY'S SOUTHERN COMFORT. OPEN 24 HOURS.
"Thanks for the lift," Adam said, stepping out.
The driver tipped two fingers off the wheel. "Hope you find what you're chasing."
"Yeah," Adam replied. "Me too."
The bell above the diner door jingled. The air inside was thick with the scent of grease, old coffee, and stubborn history. Vinyl booths. Faded posters. The kind of place that stayed open because someone didn't know how to let go.
A few locals sat scattered. A man snored quietly in the corner. A slow fan turned overhead. The television above the counter flickered through static before settling on a local news report.
"...atmospheric disturbance continues to baffle scientists... some speculate solar activity, but eyewitnesses mention unusual flashes in the sky…"
Adam slid into a booth near the back, away from the windows.
A waitress approached — middle-aged, dyed red hair pulled into a lazy bun, eyes that had seen too much.
"Coffee?" she asked.
Adam nodded. "And maybe a little peace and quiet, if that's on the menu."
She smirked faintly. "It's on special today."
She returned with a chipped mug and left him alone.
Then the door creaked again.
A man stepped inside in a crisp government-issue suit. Average height. Clean shave. But his movements were practiced. His gaze calculated.
Adam's body tensed before his mind caught up.
The agent walked to the counter and showed the waitress a photograph — low resolution, blue glow captured mid-air.
"Looking for someone. Just want to make sure he's alright."
The waitress gave it a glance, then casually shook her head. "Doesn't look familiar."
Adam kept his head down, eyes flicking to the rear exit. His hands curled slightly under the table.
The agent sat at the counter. Ordered coffee. Didn't touch it. Kept watching. Waiting.
Adam stood slowly. Dropped a few crumpled bills. Walked toward the hallway.
A faded EXIT sign pulsed red above a rusting door.
Outside, the alley was quiet. Trash bins lined the walls. A buzz from an old vending machine filled the air.
Then, movement.
A black SUV rolled into view. Slow. Intentional. Tinted windows. Adam caught a glimpse of movement inside — tactical gear. Comms.
He didn't wait.
He ran.
Boots pounded pavement. He turned hard down a side alley. The SUV revved behind him.
Overhead, a sharp whine cut through the air. A drone. Sleek. Quiet. Watching.
His containment belt blinked: EMERGENCY ENERGY: 3%
Not enough to fly. Not enough to fight.
But maybe — just maybe — enough to disappear.
A drone passed overhead. Adam didn't look up. He didn't need to. They were coming. And he wasn't done yet.
[To Be Continued]
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